Thursday, March 20, 2014

Dialogues with Giants - 2 and final

Us & Them

U: How can we see our own sicknesses without others’ mirrors?
T: You don’t live in a vacuum. Respect others’ reflections but try not to be the Narcissus. Keep distance from the kaleidoscope to see clearly. Refract within. Find your own way around the universe, but first, slow down the over rate.

U: What happens when you ignore your fate?
T: The downward spiral into ignorance. Think slowly, clearly or not at all, or all of the above to distinguish fate from dreams, from other people’s fate and their dreams.
Learn when it is time to change flocks, time to fly solo and time to mate and pair for life.
Spiral on the up-draughts, glide down the full breezes. The flapping of others will lead you back to your path.

T: The last wrestle of the titanic storytellers is yet to pass. Hope you enjoyed the sparring of the sparrow hawks. Now leave the ring for her.

T: No more dictation. The self learning has begun. Keep to your own, but allow for gating. Every community needs its own language, lessons and lifestyle.

Spray painting penises on walls that have no vagina is like going to the circus without a clown. The tent of Maya is not just in your trousers, she pumps all angles of Indra’s Spiderman.

Saturday, August 31, 2013

Porn Shorn (a fictitious account of real lives)

The recent MMS ‘porn’ scandal that hit the Delhi Metro made me wonder what regular commuters thought of the incident, which involved 250 videos of CCTV footage leaked onto a website. All the videos were of couples kissing, some maybe more intimately than others. The event caused uproar in our hysterical mainstream media who never lose an opportunity to sell sex. 

Janak Das, 41 an occasional Metro traveller who was on the Purple Line from Nehru Place laughed it off. “In Bombay, on Marine Drive and all along the beachfront you see couples making out and people pass by as if the are just pigeons,” he says. “In Delhi also you have so many young couples with nowhere to go to be private.”

Sitting next to him Abha Khosla, 55 pipes up, “It’s the same frustration that caused that bus rape,” she says, “So many young men come from villages with stars in their eyes, but Delhi is not like Bombay where there is always hope of something better happening.. Delhi crushes your dreams.” An elderly Sikh who refused to give his name adds quietly, “Delhi is a place for dreamers and lovers, we have all forgotten in our rush for power, glory, world domination, Hindu Raj, whatever...” The compartment is silent till he adds in his deep quiet voice, lips barely moving through his beard, “If only we all remembered that the Saraswati once flowed in the Yamuna…” he trails off… 

Khosla however is not done on the issue at hand. “Bhaisaab sahi keh rahe hai, but then it all goes back to our education system, our entire value system. We all know about the divide and rule effect the Macaulay Act had, what it is still doing… this midday meal curse is just another one of its effects… we need to seriously re-evaluate ourselves.” 

The Sikh’s face seems to light up at this and he starts singing softly to himself. Then Das says something that shakes up everyone. “Taking about the Macaulay Act, I’ve heard that before WW1 boys would wear pink and girls would wear blue,” he says, “and then when you destroy almost all the families in the world, who will remember these basics?” 

“We should just enforce Panchayati Raj,” says Khosla, “That will ensure job security within the community for youth and with them around maybe all this child slavery might slow down.” The Sikh holds his hand up. He’s stopped singing. “We need to love ourselves first,” he says. “Arre baba,” says Khosla, “Please stop giving me that guru stuff, it’s all very well to love one’s self just like all those people who are masturbating to the videos this man was asking about, but the real problem is that we don’t know how to love each other. Delhi has no place for languages other than the fist and the siren. If the government has so much self love for itself, how can they do anything for the people?”

The train lurches to a halt. It’s Central Secretariat. We get lost in the melee.

Sunday, June 30, 2013

Dialogues with Giants - 1

Us & Them

U: Why are we going on about Pleiades?
T: Checked your spelling? Please triangulate your position vis-à-vis your place of birth, where you are now and where you have to be.

U: how would I know the last?
T: Meditate on the waves of the full moon. Triangles are temples of sound, of communication. Love is the key; specifically, tuning your heart vibration with the rigidity of your spine… importantly, keeping a clear head free from the vagaries of emotion. Use a tree for support.
U: Ok
T: Be a bell head not a bell end. Please.
U: Yes
T: Be patient, we are already here. If the cosmos is home, we are not foreign to each other.

U: Why the crop circles…?
T: Remember intelligent design of light and beyond by which we are all bound. Your race has travelled further and wider than you know. We also know story. Please clean up your house before we allow you to see us. The collective ego of humanity needs a looking glass. Trust the intelligence of your bacteria, be good hosts and don’t get so hung up on the land you stand on. Be fearless like the daffodil seed in a hurricane.
Open your heart and the rest will also do so. Measure your boats and ships; compare the Vikings to Vellankani.

U: Tell me a story about where you come from
T: (2 days of silence)
U: sorry, please go ahead.
T: When will you cross the Kwais and dot the Ganges? Atlantis destroyed itself in a day ad a night of Brahma. We don’t feel time the way you do.

U: So does the amount of DMT in our heads control our sensitivity?
T: How do you think the planet is being controlled? Vibrational frequencies dull your natural DMT; TV literally destroys your imagination and your sensitivity. The responsible dosage for DATURA is 3 seeds for a RESPONSIBLE person, if there is no guide.
You bolster your non-existent egos with all the wrong substances; the same substances which should show you the way of the plants. You have yet to evolve completely from the savage. We had too many civilisations like yours wanting to conquer other worlds without understanding that world. Grow up humanity. Allow your children free rein/ reign but keep them off the coffee.
The righteous amongst you must continue the work of the dead before their time.

U: So getting murdered is part of the deal?
T: The idea dies, not the person. Resurrect the ideas. There are no borders except the ones you imagine. When you think uniformly you die undead deaths.
The diagnosis of reason is not yours alone. Trust the fungi. The disconnectedness of beings is yours to engage. Learn more natural languages.

U: Like what? Which languages?
T: The dichotomy of changing structure will dictate the archetype of future sound. Maybe the triangles become rhombuses?

U: What are the seven fires?
T: Look within, around and quadrilaterally. Breathe with your spine to feel free with Fraer. Evolve from the Nimrod. Then you will see them not as fires but as eucloos.
Scratching and yawning are epidemic.

U: If the clothes make the man, then how can we move beyond the chimpanzee?
T: Finally the fibratic answer to your question. Shame is unique to home sapiens. When your real biological name in the galactic records is Quetzalcoatl, we don’t know why you persist in abusing yourselves.
Please try to avoid believing in your self-created paranoias. The fly will take care of itself. Unzip and see for yourself. Psychological nudity: when you achieve that, the plants will protect you; if there any left with sufficient memory. Place your emotions; try not to thrust them on others.

U: What are emotions on a galactic level?
T: Feelings in space are not alien; it all boils down to self belief. Your species is excellent slave material because you so easily forget your bacterial guests.

U: Why do we hate our mothers?
T: (1 week later). Because you do not understand them and they are under too much pressure to constantly care for you.

U: How do we go about exorcising thee savage from within us?
T: The passion of the unforgiven can only be resolved by everlasting kisses. The rule of the weak dictates the courage of the nightwalkers. The extremities of your endeavours will take you to foregone conclusions, but then nothing is unending.
Please extract and examine your sense of entitlement; and never forget your bacterial guests.
The rule of the weak dictates the courage of the nightwalkers. The extremities of your endeavours will take you to foregone conclusions, but then nothing is unending. Please extract and examine your sense of entitlement. And never forget your bacterial guests.

U: But how can we roam naked?
T: The fear of your genitals has led to destructive generations. When the fearless mothers remember their knuckle sandwiches, Fraer is food for thought. You need to eat right, look left and feel everything.
When the ladies decided pain was essential, they became the first puppets. The male of the home sapiens has always been a slave to emotions. Yoga is not just for hippies, trippies and lippies. The poetry of yesteryear did not involve unhooking nonexistent bras.
Instinct is not a guttural reaction; it is elastic and stretchable; the survival not of the fittest, but the most adaptable. Consciousness travels by itself.
The orgasm of Gaia is also a continuous experience and nature is naked for everyone.
Mr Presley’s hair cut belongs to the silliness of your society’s disturbed fashion senses. Breasts and penises are only for the propagation of your species. Calm down.
Trees don’t take each other so seriously.
The garrulousness of your gutter will arouse your faith because pumping energy from other worlds requires memory sticks.
The dance of the ovaries choreographs the sum of us; amplification of neural senses will give you the key to all chemistry.

U: How often is flipping required to continue, till we all get it?
T: You could start by going back to liquid nature, the endless possibilities in an electric chemical soup.

U: Who cares?
T: The ground cares.

U:  What is that good old juju for Vishnu?
T: Fill your heart with song, tremble with love for the ground and let your friends in. If you will be afraid of old stories, you will not write your own. When you demonise the ego by equating it with pride, you forget to value the pride in accomplishing anything. It is not you who creates, it is yuh that creates.
When you persist in believing in the strangeness of strangers, how will you experience oneness with nature? Those who burst out of the world have hatched the way of their ancient fathers and there is no shame in walking in the footsteps of your ancestors
Sacrifice your sense of self to be one with Brahman. You can only control what you conquer and there are no demons except the ones you create when you are not yuh.
The febrile dreams of haunted souls still trap those who are willing to break the world so it can be made anew; the ‘world’ being your own self-created illusionary desires.
Powerful storytellers should begin by making room for even those stories they disagree with. No ink is the same.
The power of Atibala and Bala resides in all mortal beings from fly to chimpanzee, from living stone to tree.
Ain the strength to stare your own story in the face and you will understand how to be free. Allow your own time to reveal all to you. Every mortal being has its own time. Even trees of the same species do not have uniform barks whether they are beech, oak, eucalyptus or sandalwood. Use your bala to channel your animal spirit, the trees and the rocks will follow. But resurrect the fish if we are to have full flow.
You have forgotten the one language, the language of the heart. Thankfully you have survived your demons to write this.

U: What is the first law of magnetism?
T: When you find unclouded minds, gift them your lightening. They will anchor your hallucinations.
When you have faith in the ideas of the dead before their time you harness the potential of Brahman but never believe your self to be that which has passed its own time.
The Zorba is around the corner and bearing down fast, it is time for the raashis to play football.
Each solar system is its own family; never forget that pace of life is magnetic energy dictated by the unknown. The silence of the deeps is the privilege of the well-travelled.
Matters of meaning can only be cultured in a less cluttered world. Do the penance of at least three years.
We are also here.
Delay Achilles when he feels the urges and no one will have to lift a sword.
All the beings partnering your yuh are sharing of the same.

U: What is the perversion of islands?
T: Find the other eleven kings… you are already here, and four are near who don’t have the faith in yuh to be king of their varna.

To Be Continued

Friday, May 10, 2013

The Bernadette - A Serendipitous Diary of Lost Lives


                                                          Aseem Chaturvedi
                                                          Vikram Russell &
                                                              Amit Babu

                               OM AH HUM VAJRA GURU PADMA SIDDHI HUM

1998, Delhi
Most stories start with once upon a time;
But some stories are never on time.
When I started this, Meghna was only three. She hadn’t even walked yet.
Pankaj always used to say, “Life is a poppat. Poppat maina tota, tota maina poppat maina parrot…” I wonder why he stopped talking.
Meghna met Pankaj over the garden fence when they were both four; which is when I lost the desire to know more. Kalyani, my wife, never liked Mohini, Pankaj’s maternal familiars because she wore three bindis instead of the usual one. Their bickering always came down to that. And this… of course. The rambling of mad men is never pleasing.

1975, Munich
It all began when Chacha told me something extremely profound.
“The Jews have been talking wrong all these years, or maybe we’ve been listening incorrectly,” he said one afternoon over masala beers.
“It’s not ‘yaa way’,” he drawled, enunciating clearly, “It’s ‘yuh wuh’… this and and there. We forgot to worship the time we live in… craving always for tomorrow and losing respect for yesterday.”
“Jah,” I said.

1983, Delhi
Chacha introduced me to Kalyani at Anup’s house last June. He and Norah had just moved into this picturesque barsaati in Defence Colony; with a new Maruti in tow. Chachu and Chachi, or rather Manu and Suhita, always kept a firm grip on things, being Meghna’s god-parents after all.
I may have fallen in love with Kalyani only because she is a chemist. A childhood crush on Chachi having transferred itself to another healing woman.

2001, Delhi
Siddharth and Tyagi Baba have just returned from their monthly sojourn to Haidakhand. “Meeting trees with memory really unlocks your perspective,” says Siddharth taking off his socks and stretching his toes. Tyagi Baba nods knowledgably. “Nothing is not evil,” he says mournfully. “But some things are, no?” asks Siddharth sagely.
Tyagi Baba laughs. “What are things?” he asks back, even more sorrowfully.

1984, Delhi
Getting drunk is getting painful. Saw a Sardarni being raped and butchered, all with the same knife while I hid behind the curtain. Drank... threw up… drank some more… kept drinking. Now all I see is her.

1955, Bardez, Goa
My cycle’s got another flat tyre. Bizarre! Thought I had told Filsu to fix it… although the boy at the pump did a pretty fine job of it. One thing I’ve always learnt from children…is that energy is rampant and infectious. It never grows old... after all what are we but existence in consciousness... or rather within.
I forget how old I am some times and maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Filsu keeps telling me to act my age. How can you act out an age?

1962, Delhi
Chachi’s just back from the front. She’s been nursing the 6th Paras in China. Amazingly amidst all that sabre-rattling, she found a dealer in medicinal herbs. Now she plans to take on big pharma.

1985, Delhi
Meghna’s learnt a new word from Pankaj and Kalyani is none too pleased. She’s been yelling ‘bhenchodh’ every five minutes. Chachi tells Kalyani to wash Meghna’s mouth with soap. Meghna yells bubbly ‘bhenchodhs’ throughout the house.

1979, Darjeeling
Kurt Baba and Tyagi Baba have hatched a plot to drive me insane. And I can’t, for the life of me, figure out what it is. They keep talking about nothing and finger pointing bodhisattvas everywhere. Kalyani wants to kick them out of the house for a month now as they keep pointing at her breasts and repeating, almost trance-like, “One is where we come from, one is where light comes from.” She wants to know where they come from.
And I’ve completely forgotten.

1995, Bombay
Sahej and Sarab have come out of the closet; mighty brave of them in this age. Kalyani says I need to come out of the closet too. I’ve started doubting the sense memory of my penis. Sex with Kalyani has never been a bugbear. She wants it, I provide it; when she doesn’t want it, I flog it…or play some drums. Basketball is good yoga too.
I forget how old I am.

1981, Delhi
Miss Ismail from across the street came by with Mohini to return Chachi’s pressure cooker. It was a nice Sunday till she showed up with a broken handle. Kalyani told her to wear it like a helmet and get out before she threw a book at her.
“Milarepa, Padmasabhava,” I said. She threw the book at me instead.

1962, Bardez, Goa
Being from Goa has its perks…it’s never a holiday, it’s always a homecoming. And being with good friends and trusted family is that added flavour to the sorpotel.
Lots of the crowd are getting jittery with the change in power; the ham radio operators are on over time after a few fenis. Bob tells me to ignore the leaders and follow parking meters. Maybe it’s an American thing. I tell him to go to Benaras and try and find a parking meter there.
Kalyani kicks me under the table, her eyes saying I shouldn’t be telling people where to go and how to get off. That’s her job. Being a Brahmin is hard work.

1933, Botswana
I’ve been trudging through this muck with the boys for weeks now. We all have leeches on our heels. Except for the phoenix Lakhwinder saw in the marsh three days ago, it’s been a pretty boring war. Surjeet says the ‘phoenix’ was really a peacock on fire. We scoff. He protests, “But the peacock also has the consciousness to transform its self.” Lt. Stephen orders him to wash his mouth out with soap and stop listening to Beethoven so much. Sgt. Francis rolls his eyes.

1965, London
Chachi says my underwear is too shabby. Chacha thinks they’re pretty durable. Mum and Dad don’t care, so long as I wear a belt. He gives me one that he says he got from China. Chachi slaps him. “I got that for you,” she snarls.
Why do we make it so hard on ourselves? It’s only appearances for Chrissakes! Oh well, dance with the girls and wrestle with the boys, like my grand-dad used to say. “We’re all experience in consciousness,” he would boom. And grand-ma would tell him to go wash the curtains.
We’re so bound by meaningless words. It’s just underwear.
Shambala is always possible with fearless mothers who lack nightmares. Maybe Chachi’s seen too much at the front.
There was also that fling she’d had then with the army truck mechanic. Chacha chose to ignore it till he found out the mechanic’s real time profession was dealing in medicinal herbs. Things were cool after that, for quite a while.

1932, Natal, South Africa
Mohandas has some big ideas but I think he’s too much of a dreamer. Like black will ever shine... ass.
“A donkey is a very sensitive animal,” he responds eloquently, “they commit suicide if badly treated.” Kalyani tells him to get off his high horse and have lunch. Politely, he asks not to be yoked to our family’s conundrums. Kalyani grins widely at him and shovels more rice into his plate. It’s always the college friends that are the thickest. Rajneesh is another whacko. Kalyani thinks the four of them – Kurt Baba and Tyagi Baba included – should just get a room and shag each other. Rajneesh seemed excited at the prospects.

1959, Darjeeling
Another hail storm today; Tenzin almost lost his shirt. Thankfully I had Chacha’s Chinese belt. “What is with the memories of trees?” Tenzin asks Tyagi Baba. Tyagi Baba laughs mournfully and shakes his head with sorrowful joy.
“Leaf it,” he says.
“Not knowing …is also knowing,” he adds, passing the chillum to Tenzin.
“Trees don’t take each so seriously,” he adds some more, guffawing madly.
“Everyone wants to be Buddha, but not be themselves,” he says solemnly, winking at me, “Two thousand years have taken its toll.”
“Draupadi ki Shakti you mean?” asks Tenzin exhaling a cloud of smoke.
Tyagi Baba looks distracted. “What are these cavities in space?” he asks a passing spider.

1994, Delhi
Pankaj has been name-dropping again. This time he’s trying to lure Meghna to go see Michael Jackson in Bombay. The world will cry when that man dies.
Kalyani and Chachi were talking about him the other day. “Now that’s how black shines,” says Chachi sagely. “Really?” asks Kalyani.
“Please release me,” I warble. Kalyani gives me a kick. “Wrong singer, fool,” she says. I’ve forgotten how old I am.

1965, Bombay
Past life therapy is so regressive. Chachi’s brother, Samrat Uncle, is a big practioner. His biggest client, Randolph often pimps gullible customers for him. “It’s all about shade,” says Samrat Uncle cryptically. Randolph nods sagely. “Removing the asshole is the hardest part,” he says passing me a beer, “criticism is ingrained.”
“What’s wrong with shit?” asks Samrat Uncle
“I finally found my purpose in life,” I say.
What’s that?” they ask.
“Clean up,” I say.
“Yeah, right,” they laugh.
“Wash your arse with your right hand no…” I plead.
“Ambidextrousness is inborn,” says the sense memory of our genetic monkey.
“Oh God!” says Samrat Uncle.
“Jah!” says Randolph, “That bitch is still on our backs.”
“Addicted to tradition, are we?” I ask
“It’s not like nothing happened,” says Samrat Uncle.

1926, Darjeeling
It’s all magic now... a penny for your thoughts and a trunk of gold for your dreams. London has come to Bombay and Calcutta has invaded England.
The fine dance of consciousness has begun. Praise be to HPB and the Church of Mary.
Finally maybe soon people will see why. Finally soon people will remember the land before their countries.
Maybe we’re done with the imposed sacrifices and wisdom will reign in the four horsemen of the apocalypse.
Everything is just blowing in the wind.
The eternal footprints of the star signs have begun to fructify. Take that and chew your cereal with it. What is up, anyway?
And when we learn that ‘bastard’ is really anupadaka – the parentless energy which births worlds, we will forget abuse and stop cursing each other.

1987, Munich
Lionel says it’s not possible. Tyagi Baba doesn’t care and Kalyani would rather get a pedicure. A generation is being destroyed and everyone’s forgotten that trees also dream. Vladimir wants his bomb, Moammar can’t get enough of the boobs and Indira is still alive. Everyone wants to be the lead character without understanding the story of everyone else’s lives.

1975, Darjeeling
Rani Ghose chose to be where the wind is. But the Gobi is where there’s too much of it. Searching for the soul of Genghis is hard work with not a drop of gin to drink. But then she’s never been an alcoholic; her flow is different.

1986, Delhi
The last thing I remember was Baldev howling at the picket. Cops have never had it so hard. And we’re making it harder for everyone in uniform to clear their perspective. From ‘convent’ schools to clergymen to cops… the damage is certain, but then like Tyagi Baba says, “Every disease has its cure.” Dad tells him to suck on an amla.

1924, Paris
“When the atom asks itself, ‘who was the photon?’ what will happen?” asks Kurt Baba blearily.
“What’s wrong with your body?” asks Kalyani wearily.
“I want magic... real jadoo,” he says
Chachi tells him to sweep the terrace.
“Kalki’s cavalry is all in our heads,” he responds, picking up the broom.
Kalyani shakes her head and dances out to her yoga class.

1988, Bombay
Mukul and Imaad tell Tyagi Baba to chill. He can’t stand the silence they create.
Mum tells them all to listen to Chachi.
“Be relentlessly fearless,” says Chachi, “Like a bumblebee in a windshield wiper.”
The lucid chain of reason is being brought to its conclusion.

1936, Istanbul
Mowgli will never look at Kaa the same way again. Now that he knows that being brought up with wolves has destroyed his affinity to tigers. One day he will swallow Orwell too.
The ship to Timbuktoo left without being booked and the jaundiced European doesn’t know what hit him. When Hitler saw stars, he was in the ghetto. Andre tells me to wash my mouth with soap.

2012, Delhi
Abhay says laughing is all it is.
Mayank can’t care less
Dad says to join his business
Enough with the rivers of fire already
We have forgotten the baolis.
Norah says to come away with her
Anup couldn’t agree more
Chachi couldn’t care less
Tyagi Baba wants to know where
I can’t wait
Vladimir says to go for it
And then the deluge walked in the door
Even the banyans bowed their mighty heads.
Tshering walks in to see what’s up; he thinks I should go to Kalimpong. Amitabha wants me to go to Somnath. Maybe I should clone myself
Barack says if I stop calling him a chicken, he might actually do something about it. But I can’t help myself, ‘barack’’ is what a chicken says. “Wrong,” he says, “that’s a frog’s call.
The garden of Gethsemane is growing again and the kibbutz is coming home, as the crow flies, as the grace descends.
Tyagi Baba disagrees. “Grace has always been with us. Television’s sped us up too fast; we haven’t been able to allow it in.”
Chachi’s trash is about to become the world’s treasure.

1945, Darjeeling
The train to Asansol is chugging out of Siliguri and none of the Japs are getting off. The flames of wrath are being stoked by powers that wannabe. Hitler thought he was a vehicle when really he was a puppet.
The world will have to live with this wretched war propaganda. When will we learn to cool it? I hope the next maha-kumbh throws up the next crop of bodhisattvas.
Already women are being lured to don cosmetics tested on fearful animals. I don’t know that will affect their heads. Two thousand years have taken its toll.

1974, Delhi
The madmen have decided they want to harvest our genitals. This is taking ball-grabbing to a whole other level. Don’t they know their own families will have to pay for this wanton destruction? The world is theirs too. Shame on you Sanjay, Jagdish and Kamal…
I’ve drunk my wine and listened to many a whine; still it is not yet time to cross the Rhine. Hitler saw stars in the ghetto. Kapil Dev says I should stop writing.
The microwave war is hotting up and there’s an electric sword growing out of my right fist. Maybe it’s the force from Star Wars, but the again it’s probably my erupting Achilles’ heel coming out finally …now that fearless mothers are being eroded by cosmetics and beauty magazines.

2016, Buenos Aires
We’ve forgotten the music of flies and the sound of the Holy Whun. But then again, meeting born-again buddhas is a quite a relief; maybe they will remember the old songs; because the fearless mothers are forgetting their knuckle blessings.
The world is home when we go with our stars and allow others to as well. We’ve forgotten how to read each others’ stories and have strayed from oneness.
Vladimir says we’re good to go, and Barack has reined in his frogs.
Burn my voodoo doll please. When did we become grammar Nazis?
I forget how old I am.

2021, San Palermo
When the horses of fire race around the vast mountain of cool, they will forget their manes, names and all turn lame.
Our generation is seven years old and we still have not reined in slavery. When did work become ‘naukri’? Who told us we are born servants?
When Tyagi Baba said to eat his body and drink his blood, he really meant he wanted us to chew his mind not turn into cannibals.
The Sound of Music has jailed us to only think in scales

1901, London
The destruction of nature is steaming along and we are clueless. Garth Brooks says country music is three chords and the truth. Ruth Powell disagrees: “Music can’t be so ruthless,” she says. The automatic vision of the unborn will lead the way when we allow the mountain to be captain and commander. The tragedies of partitions will transform into time’s tumescent lingam.
The death of Kalimpong will bring the rise of Vishnu because the end is only a bend in the river of karma when Shakti comes back to life.

1922, Moscow
When the architects of the lost worlds return their protractors to the ladies, reality will trump destruction. Dad has always been a silly boy. I raise my toast to destruction and ask it thanks. Red means listen not stop or relax and definitely not rage.
And now Indira will sing her heart out beyond full stops. The repository of story does not belong to one person or chemical, however much banks will try and convince us.
Feelings in space are always disrupted by kittens because in the stream of consciousness we often forget we are boatmen on Saraswati.
Vladimir says to look to the Aegean instead.
The candidacy of millions to the job of one has been consigned to the dustbin.

2013, Darjeeling
Pickles is the cosmos, Odie is a volcano, Chikori is the harsh desert while her daughter, Goofy is the bulging ocean. Lucky is happy being spring time. They guard my parents’ door. Bambooli chooses to be with the wind instead; maybe she knows Rani Ghosh from a previous life.

I burn the bridges, they slam the doors; even the windows are just two-way mirrors. Vandalising futures lead us nowhere and the Kwai remembers that. The war of the roads leads us to the knights of the crosses because what you say to cats bounces back at you nine-fold.

2015, Buenos Aires
The heart and bad food tell you not to go that way again.  Vladimir says you can kill him but never consume him. Tyagi Baba agrees whole-heartedly.
When Betsy became a car and mankind began loving its fake horses, one scratch in rush hour leads to dented and painted wives.
Property destroys propriety; even the sphinx wears a hoodie.
We’ve soaked up Meru because conversations are unbound circles; just like karma.
The ego and guilt of previous existences are hangers-on in the living room of our memories. Tango on a tangent instead through the everlasting sale of toughness. When Rani Ghose said she knew the wind, she wasn’t breaking it.
The murderous rampage of illicit ideas will uproot the mushrooms of love. The space between is for story tellers to dictate, even though Hitler also was one.
Friends are separate entities that we trust because they own our memories when substance abuse destroys our ability to see through the purple tales.
I am strapped into a place I don’t understand. Or maybe it’s just the space and this endless circle of rebirth and re-questioning. When will the answer to Godot’s mysteries manifest? Or are we trapped in this continuous chaotic existence in the quest for nothingness?
With feet stretched out on open ledges, toes dangling into the void, Padmasambhava laughs at his selves.

2013, Delhi
Expiry dates of rape cases are pending inquiry still. A five year old girl was raped with a candle and a bottle of oil for four days by her neighbour today. The savagery of destroyed animals has finally entered the human psyche. Jai ho to the British Raj and schizophrenic maharajas now that Mowgli has been unleashed.
Being deliciously half deaf means I get to savour every word I think you said.
While the voices in my head keep up the running commentary of bored spectators. As far as I can tell its two guys and a girl who keep up the same bored awed banter of whatever I think.
The second I ascribe them to people I know, they get stronger; my equation with those people loses or gains strength by this association when I change the person I ascribe each voice too. It can get quite entertaining in the quiet times.
 But then they are the clowns in my head who make me believe I’m the ringmaster of my life. Did the first Egyptians have the same hallucination?

2010, Darjeeling
My prehistoric war club is the gear-stick to parallel universes when not masquerading as a door-stop. The ghosts have departed but the animals remain. My head has never been clearer; but still shiny floors remind me of upskirt shots.
Dubstep is sound saying ‘stay humble and dance’ while radio jockeys think they are all Kalki.
What is difference between fame and remembrance? Padmasambhava has outlived his 15 minutes now that Arnab has taken over. People so want things to be ‘over’; as if life was a war or a Ram Gopal Varma movie.
Hitler saw stars in the ghetto and Mitterrand said “folie à deux” to that.
Rafting is not an option on Saraswati when she is in spate; you need your own yacht with Shakti TM navigation. Of the 641 unwritten stories I have in my head, maybe this one will fart its way out as the metaphysical electric shield on my left arm envelops my memories.

1999, Varanasi
The strength of Varanasi is untold; the staccato stories of yesteryear, of places, spaces and lost races. The captured wheels of time’s DNA will unwind through the water.
“Blue begets blue with me and you,” whispers the Ganga gratefully.
Kurt Baba says its time to play the drums, twirling his shiny moustache. I whistle at the birds instead.
Once it is all out, the raven will knock back a cold beer
Tyagi Baba says to wink at Sharad and remember where my mother came from.

Tickets on loan are never cheap; democracy failed the republic when the rule of the home was corrupted. The rage of the jalopies continues unabated. India should quit the pits and enter the fruit because without seeds, where will we find shade?
Mowgli, please meet Milarepa.
Banish Kipling to the dark side of the moon; he can sulk with Syd and allow Kalidas to warble again. The poverty of ignorance sends shivers down my spine.
“When in doubt, dance,” says Milarepa.
Nalanda agrees, Tagore giggles to himself in the reeds, masturbating his mind away.
The errand boys of justice and dharma are realising they’re the berserkers to the way to the Krita.
I forget how old I am.
Atal whispers, “Atoot!”
Manali is never far from my heart. Now even Nicholas is chuckling quietly to himself.

2001, Manali
Driftwood sounds like rushing water or maybe that’s the air-conditioner; engineering conditions for nowness is never easy. “Yuh, wuh, jah,” says Chacha.
Trees are mansions to lost souls but Vikramaditya says to chill, all they do is nag,in between the guiding.
I’ve exorcised the sword in my fist thanks to some other vibrational sentience. Now to free Kunti from British cursing because looking at books is hardly worth the effort without burning them all.
Sita and Draupadi are better off stringing the bows; and not just on wedding gowns and curtains of the mind. They also know a stitch in time can save some dignity.
Press your fingers to your chin and take a good shit because words are dumping grounds for experience but almost never wisdom. The value of education has been lost, much thanks and grace to Macaulay.

We can all exercise jugaad when ganja is legalised for responsible entrepreneurs. “BRIC by BRIC ooh babay, we’re gonna go solarrr…,” sings Meghna. “Where did this word ‘god’ come from, papa?” she asks.
The emancipation of gud or the sweetness of humility and creation will only occur when the British acknowledge they’ve been complete twats by losing everything in translation;
And all of this over pepper, bloody pepper…
Bholenath’s sense of humour is intact. “When everyone is a storyteller, the space between is gud,” he whispers.
“Keep distance and use dipper at night,” says Tyagi Baba.
Mohandasda and the King just did a back touch handshake alleyoop and flipped the world. Cassius stung the Caucasians and called them ‘brother’ but Bob insists on Desolation Row because of Madurai and Murphy.
And then three billion Robin Hoods rained an arrowstorm into Murphy’s Laws.
The parrots of doom say, “Its only mood baby, go back into the marsh with your assorted monsters.”
Alcohol beggars self-belief when the over-dynamics of time begin to make nonsense.
‘Rascal!” says Tagore and Icarus changes to fibre instead, because the exit is the elixir.
“Meru is Kashmir,” states Tyagi Baba, “If the Buddha were alive today, he’d be begging for film funding.” When there are so many of them, why do we make the same mistake twice?

1979, Delhi
Great minds don’t think alike if they’re on the same page, because they read different books.
When the Sphinx lost its nose, the Jews were none too pleased.
When we remember the intelligence of gamma rays, the lint from our navel will disappear.
Voice boxes are not the only radiation of the heart, because we are still feelings in space.
The British must pay for binding us in their schizophrenic stories; and then Mowgli will know Sher Khan is really Shakti; and rebel panthers have lost causes; and lazy bears belong in private forests.
Swallowing antidotes of cod liver oil to alleviate the roadways of acidity through the system of perpendicular holocausts will always bring about strong reactions.
I forget how old I am.

The silence of the deeps still calls those who flow with their own time.
The illiterate are not ignorant of spaces, places and faces;
The young are not ignorant of races, cases and fracases.
The fresco of Padmasambhava continues to paint itself;
Michelangelo was also a dolphin whose brushes surged through the colours of infra-red, gamma, microwave, x-ray, ultraviolet and mustard prawns.

The last ride of the Valkyries will be fuelled by great food; but where are the chefs, the green-grocers and clean butchers?
The last lobotomy of wannabe powers has begun and Dick Cheney will also fly out with the flame-haired warrior queens when they ride out to meet the Annunaki.
When the electric giants return, only fearless mothers will be able to serve them tea.

Keeping it in the family for generations has warped the way we read stories; we’ve forgotten we are the twelve tribes of the zodiac, lost under a haze of our own pollution.
“Yuh, wuh, yah,” says Chachi.
“Finally you agree with me,” says Chacha, “But we’re still not on the same page.”
“I’m all over your book,” says Chachi, “And you’re worried about a page?”
Chacha digs his nose and looks at Tagore who walks out in a huff.

2002, Delhi
Cavities in space
Gaps in nothing
Falling through rising
Still floating

Might as well
Walk down this road
It’s not so swell
But it takes the load

Might as well
Climb that tree
There’s no fee
To ring the bell

Fist full of beggars
Shake change
In your heart
Grab your soul

First you
Then we

I see you
Look through you
As do you
You know
I know

Any day
My racing cheetah chariot
Derails your roaring lion
Any day

1980, Delhi
Pankaj is insisting that this story needs a beginning, middle and an end.
Tyagi Baba gives him a banana;
Kurt Baba gives him an orange;
Chachi gives him a tight slap;
Meghna kisses his cheek. “How’s that for an ending?” she asks.
“Ends are only bends in the river of life,” says Chachi.
“Please don’t repeat yourself,” says Chacha.
“What’s the difference between lying and using your imagination?” I ask.
“What’s the difference between ambition and farsightedness?” I ask again.
When Chachi unleashes her imagination, we know what kind of water we live in because there is no pride in accomplishment if it is not part of the river of dreams.
“Even trees dream,” says Tyagi Baba.
“But they don’t write,” says Anup.
Meghna dances into the way.
The burping of incessant ways of rhyme firms up my head to derived conclusions.
But the callousness of confusion has left it all untold.

Next post: Dialogues with Giants - 1

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

14 x 9 inches

air lama

sick prick
Delhi police
mall rat

hitch-hiking crab with a tumour

16 x11 inches




tahrir square

everybody's got a monkey



pc sorcar

welcome to India

piper bee

hot talk





21 x 14 inches


to smoke or to fly

roadside romeo


alter ego

gorilla peacock

he who turns on future,
holds onto balls

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Trademarked Power

Public Service Announcement from MUSLI POWER X-TRA!

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Viva Santiago.. bouquets and brickbats

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